


Be Right Back

by Dantherus



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Artificial Intelligence, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 16:59:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14573466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dantherus/pseuds/Dantherus
Summary: After the SHIELD leakage, they find a file containing information about The Winter Soldier, and Steve has to cope with the fact that Bucky had been alive all this time, enslaved by HYDRA. Finding out that The Winter Soldier has been terminated has Steve grieving anew, and having to deal with feelings that he had thought long overcome. As a means to aid Steve’s healing, Tony devises an artificial intelligence program that will allow Steve to communicate what he feels towards Bucky—and, finally, to say goodbye.-Inspired by the Black Mirror episode under the same name.





	Be Right Back

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Mima and Renata for the continuous support. This one's for you.

**Be Right Back**

 

-

 

They found a file amid the many in the SHIELD leakage regarding one so called The Winter Soldier, who had the face of someone ever-present in Steve’s nightmares. 

Cold. A never ending fall from a train, screaming himself raw in his apartment. He had asked for soundproof walls as soon as he moved into the Avengers tower, afraid to let the others know that demons plagued him. 

But that file tore open an old wound, stirred awake old hopes, and instilled in Steve a new horror: that Bucky had survived the fall and been enslaved by Hydra, and there was nothing Steve could have done. 

They had followed the leads, then, from dead end to dead end. Every time they came upon an abandoned base, the wound in Steve’s chest festered, increased. When they finally found  _ him,  _ three months had passed, and hope had become torture. 

But Hydra had been burning all its bridges, so it wasn’t surprising that  _ he _ , too, should have been terminated. Still, it hurt. 

The cables that powered the engine keeping him alive in cryo had been cut off, and his face had been disfigured by maggots. Steve couldn’t look, but the warning had been in his heart from the moment they found the first empty facility. 

Tony saw him turn away and commiserated, said they could run some tests, perhaps that was someone else. But Steve had never been wrong when it came to Bucky. He’d know him anywhere. 

If only they had got to him sooner. If only Steve could have grabbed his hand. 

Now they take him to New York and give him a proper burial. Steve looks at all the hurt Hydra had inflicted upon his body over the years and takes them into his own, feels them on his skin. That’s all he can do. 

Steve stands at the head of his grave before they finally close it. He is so numb; it’s surreal that he must say a few words about his pal, his Bucky. Nat is there holding his hand as the others look; he feels vulnerable, stripped naked. No noose pars the knot in his throat. But he opens his mouth and pushes the words out. 

“I wanted to make this world a better place. Everything I did, I did for the greater good.”

Natasha’s grip tightens when his voice wavers, and he trudges through the fog enclosing his brain.

“It was only when I saw that every time I marched into a battlefield I was thinking of him, of going back to him, that I realised what I was actually fighting for.”

He wants to say something about Bucky’s greatness, how he was a better man than Steve will ever be, but all the things he never got to tell Bucky consume him. His cowardice had come at such a high price seventy years ago, and it weighs anew on his shoulders. He had grieved, but regret never quite left him. So when he speaks, it’s like he’s alone in that run-down bar in a country marred by war, again.

“Now, he’s gone.”

He goes back home and locks the world outside. 

His friends barely see him afterwards, and Tony is worried enough after the third week or so to send him a gift. “For the things you never got to say,” the note reads. Tony knows, he has lost loved ones, too. 

Inside, there’s a plastic box with instructions on the back. Steve vaguely remembers it pertaining to a trauma recovery device that Tony has been developing. Steve leaves it on the nightstand, doesn’t look at it for another week. 

Nat comes to see him when missions allow, and Steve thinks  _ he should be _ there, chastises himself for wallowing in self-pity and promises that tomorrow he’ll get it together. But time is a blur and tomorrow never comes. 

Sam shows up one day and spends the afternoon with Steve. His soft brown eyes widen in concern as they see how Steve has withered. The serum grants that he never gets sick, or suffers from heat or cold; Steve always gets up after a hard punch. But whatever’s eating him away stems from inside. Sam wishes he could reach into Steve’s chest and get rid of the sickness, but knows he’d only find a hollow. 

Recovery is different for everyone, so he convinces Steve to use Tony’s gift. Steve spends an hour after Sam has left staring at the box, and the water in the tub. He pours its contents inside and goes to bed, sleeps until late morning, but spends another two hours gazing at the shadow patterns on the ceiling.  

The world is alive outside the window, thriving—and it’s unfair. He dares not look at it anymore. It feels wrong that he should marvel at it, knowing that Bucky had spent seventy years seeing things from behind a red veil. 

He eats breakfast late, lunch even later, leaving most of it untouched because he only tastes ash. Another time, he would be going about his routine. Would have had a run with Sam in the morning, would have cleaned his apartment—but now he sits on the sofa, drawing pad propped onto his lap and pencil painting the page black. Sam had said it would help to try and express his feelings somehow, but Steve doesn’t even see what he’s doing. There is a pile of similar pages stashed on the coffee table, assembled there by Sam in his last visit. 

Footsteps come from the bathroom corridor and Steve looks up. So much crosses his mind at once when the person walks into the light: has he finally gone mad? Is this one of Tony’s pranks? He had kept seeing Bucky in the faces of strangers on the streets before the crash into ice—still does, nowadays. But until now there was no one besides Steve in the apartment, and yet Bucky Barnes stands right there, looking at him. 

He’s naked and dripping wet all over the floor. His eyes are as blue as Steve remembers; body free of the scars that once made him. It’s not right. 

“Who the hell are you?” Steve croaks, voice raspy from disuse. 

“I’m Bucky.” The man says, and Steve’s heart shatters, because it’s Bucky’s voice. 

But the real Bucky would never have answered Steve’s silly question like that. He would have mocked Steve affectionately and tousled his hair, called him a punk. 

“You’re not. Get out of my house.” Steve says, furious and hurting, and the copy of Bucky takes a step back. The look of apprehension on his face is too similar to the way Bucky would watch him when Steve’s life was at risk, before the serum, before the train.

“Do you not want me?” The Copy asks quietly, and for a brief moment Steve can’t tell what’s real anymore. He gets up and marches to the stranger with his love’s face, shoves him back into the bathroom and closes the door. He feels nauseated, but goes back to the living room and calls Tony.

“Hey, Cap. How are you doing?” Tony greets him, friendly and concerned. 

“Why are you doing this?” Steve hisses into the phone. He wants to elaborate, wants to accuse Tony of using Steve’s grief to test his hateful gadget, of mocking Steve’s misery. But it gets stuck in his throat, and all he does is keep repeating  _ why _ until Tony begs that Steve lets him speak. He’s crying. 

“Steve, I would never do something like that. You’re my friend, Cap, believe it or not. I want to see you get better, and I promise the device can help.”

“Tony, you sent me a ghost of him. There’s so much I-” Steve begins, but his voice cracks.

“I know. Believe me, I know, and he  _ can  _ help. All you gotta do is feed him.” Tony says, sniffling. He coughs to get his shaky voice under control. 

“Feed him?!”

“Feed him information. If you have anything from Barnes, give it to him and he will assimilate.” Now that he’s explaining his creation, he gets more confident, hopeful. “Objects, clothes, memories... He will improve itself the more he attunes to you, but you gotta let him. You gotta believe in him.”

“ _ That thing  _ is a replacement?” Steve asks, shaking his head even though Tony can’t see it. “I don’t want a replacement.”

“He’s not a replacement. He’s a way to- to try and fix things. Please, give him a chance.”

“Goodbye, Tony.” Steve says, tired, and hangs up. 

Steve is at such a loss that he deals with the issue the way he does nowadays: he burrows himself in bed; but sleep doesn’t come. 

He’s intent on ignoring the existence of Bucky’s copy the next day, as if pretending  _ it _ isn’t there will make  _ it _ go away. 

That morning, Steve finally gathers the courage to do laundry—mostly because he wants something to occupy his mind with. He picks up dirty clothes scattered around the apartment and throws them into the hamper, but when he remembers that the washing machine is in the bathroom, he gives up—leaves them at the door. 

He sets about dusting, instead; scrubs every nook and cranny obsessively until his limbs are sore. It’s a hot day, so by the time he’s done, he’s sweating through his clothes. Steve realises that he hasn’t showered in three days: his hair is greasy, he smells bad, his beard has grown in. In that moment, it feels like the most important thing in the world.

Steve steels himself before opening the door, and when he does, Bucky’s copy is standing there. He scans Steve’s face with greyish-blue eyes that don’t belong to him. It looks so young, this version of  _ him _ . Steve can easily picture him in worn out pants, a white shirt and suspenders, a smudge of dust on chiseled cheekbones. The Copy’s eyes soften, and he gingerly takes a step in Steve’s direction, but Steve makes him halt by harshly asking: 

“Did you stand there all night?”

“Yes.” The Copy responds, uncertain.

He looks pitiful with his shoulders rolled in and his hands cupping his private parts, and Steve hates it. Hates that he wants to drape a warm blanket over him and feed him hot cocoa. It was Bucky’s favourite, and this is not Bucky. 

“Get out.” He says, and every nerve-ending in his body is going haywire, because that  _ is _ Bucky right there, looking lost and vulnerable, and Steve is being needlessly cruel to him. It goes against Steve’s nature. But the Copy casts his eyes down and walks out, and Steve locks the door behind him. He grips the sink to prevent himself from collapsing, then ducks under the water spray, letting the it drown out everything else. 

He notices that someone has looked through the stuff in the cabinet. Steve doesn’t know if robots can feel bored, but Tony had said this one was special, that it could learn. Steve shaves, but doesn’t trust himself enough to cut his own hair (which looks impossibly long); he leaves the bathroom and and goes to the living room.

The Copy is studying a drawing of Bucky on Steve’s pad, nimble fingers tracing the lines delicately. Steve’s stomach churns, because that’s private. Those are his memories of the man he loves, and he has never shared them with anyone else. 

“Put that down.” He warns, but his voice comes out weak. He’s suddenly terrified that his memories will disappear, because someone else has seen them; that he’ll wake up and realise they were all made up, that Bucky had never existed and Steve’s love had been an illusion. It’s irrational, but it leaves him shaking. 

“There isn’t much of him left, is there?” The Copy asks, moving to the next page before he registers Steve’s distress and puts the drawing pad back on the sofa. The question cuts right through Steve. 

“We hadn’t much tech back then.” He says, strained. 

“That’s a pity.” The Copy says, turning to him. “It would help if we did. Would make it easier, looking and acting like him.”

“You could never-” Steve says, breathless. “You’re a perversion. A mere ghost of the man he was.”

The Copy frowns at him.

“But you, also, are but a ghost of a man, are you not?” He asks, rendering Steve speechless. “I learn fast, as my creator must have already informed. I had only to look at you. You’re like a broken clock, Steve. Anyone can tell exactly when you lost all purpose.”

Steve grips the towel around his hips.

“Shut up! You know nothing about me! I want you out. Out!” He cries. 

Having a stranger say Steve is broken hurts even more when they wear Bucky’s face. Steve had always held his beliefs so close, but losing Bucky had been devastating, and seeking vengeance had brought no closure. Steve had never wanted for war to become his life, but seventy years later he’s still carrying that shield. 

“Why must you so readily reject me? I can help.”

“You can’t.” Steve scoffs wetly. “You don’t even sound like him.”

The Copy seems to consider that, pacing briefly back and forth and then walking up to Steve. Steve’s heart races. 

“He was from Brooklyn, right?” He asks, and Steve dumbly nods. “I sound like ‘im now?” He drawls, ducking his head and looking at Steve from under his lashes. Steve shudders from head to toe, knees gone weak, because that’s so painfully familiar. 

“Stop,” he orders, but it sounds more like a plea. “Stop trying to be like him.”

“Okay.”

He is closer now, so Steve notices a mole on his forehead that wasn’t there before. Not only that, his gait seems looser, and he’s stopped trying to cover himself. Is this what Tony had said about letting him into Steve’s memories? How is creating a copy of Bucky going to help Steve overcome his loss?

“Why are you really here?” Steve asks.

“So you can say goodbye.” The Copy says, the corner of his lips tugging into a sympathetic smile. “Twice you didn’t get to.”

Steve goes to his room and The Copy follows a few steps behind, but doesn’t come in. Steve reckons he can’t have him walking around naked; so Steve finds new underwear, sweatpants and a shirt, and thrusts them into his arms, closing the door so Steve can change himself. 

He comes out and The Copy is looking through a collection of LP’s from Steve and Bucky’s time. The clothes are too big on him, making him look even younger. The image he paints is sepia; brings back bittersweet memories of when Bucky would put on a song on their vinyl player and drag Steve along. 

Steve often declined going to the dance hall, saying he wasn’t feeling too good. It was selfish; he knew that Bucky loved dancing, but that he’d always forgo it if Steve as much as sneezed. And like this, it was just the two of them.

Bucky was stunning when he danced: so full of energy, so alive and passionate. Steve was never more miserable about having been born into that sickly body than when he saw Bucky with a dame on the dancefloor. He wished that were him. 

The two would dance in their tiny apartment until Steve was sweaty and panting, and Bucky would tease him, asking if his best guy was too tired already.

Steve clears his throat, and the Copy looks up at him, smiles.

“Thanks for the clothes.” He says, gesturing to himself. “That’s a nice collection.” He adds, pointing at the discos. 

“Thank you. But please don’t touch them anymore.”

The Copy nods, awkward, like a kid that has been scolded, and Steve feels guilty. But he can’t let this keep going. This…  _ Thing _ has only been here for a few hours and Steve already feels as if it came into his sanctuary and moved everything around.

“I’m going to contact Tony so he can take you back in and deactivate you.”

That hits the Copy like a wave.

“Why?” He asks, eyebrows pinching together. “You need me.”

“I don’t need  _ you _ .” Steve emphasises sternly. “Maybe Tony’s intentions were genuine, but this has been the worst day I’ve had in weeks. You gotta leave.”

“What if I-” The Copy starts, looks around trying to come up with something; his Adam's apple bobs. “What if I just stay here and help you with chores? You ain’t gotta talk to me, just let me be of use. That’s what I was designed for.” He pleads.

Steve closes his eyes, sighs and sits down on the couch. He can understand being desperate to help, to do something, anything. It’s the reason he’s here today. 

“Ok.” He concedes, and the Copy beams down at him, like Bucky did when Steve shot those cans down and got him a plushy bear. But there’s more—there’s relief. “But stay out of my memories.”

The Copy nods and Steve goes back to his room. 

When Steve enters the living room the next day, he’s there, looking out the window with his hands in his pockets. Bucky often did that when winter was approaching, eyebrows creased in concern. But Steve had only to walk into the room for him to open a toothy grin and say-

“Mornin’ sunshine.”

Steve swallows and doesn’t look at him the rest of the day.

The Copy makes his apartment squeaky clean. He polishes the pots and pans, organises the books on the shelves, and offers to cook for Steve. Steve lets him, once, but that seems enough permission to do it everyday. He juts out his hips just so when stirring the pot, bites his lips when he thinks something might be missing, and Steve feels as if he’s been sent decades to the past. 

One day he comes into the kitchen to find the Copy humming a familiar song while making PB&J’s. Steve knows every note of it—how Bucky would hum some parts and whistle others, red lips pursing beautifully, and Steve would die to kiss them just once.

He goes back to his room and doesn’t come out. The Copy knocks once to see if Steve would like something to eat, but Steve only asks to be left alone. Already he regrets having pitied this creature and allowing it to stay in his house, but he can’t deny that he’s been eating better and showering at the proper times. Having someone around seems to help keeping a routine, even if they’re not, in fact, a person. 

It rains terribly that night, and around three in the morning Steve hears another knock. Thunder rumbles outside, and this high up in the sky, they make the entire building shake. Steve opens the door and is met with an afflicted Copy. But when he looks up at Steve, he frowns in confusion. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but closes it immediately.

“Do you need anything?” Steve asks, and the Copy’s confusion deepens.

“No. I don’t know. I just- I just felt like I had to be here.”

It _ felt _ , he had said, and Steve almost laughs at that, but the knot in his throat prevents him.

“You okay?” The Copy asks, exactly like Bucky would in stormy days. Steve had always been tormented by thunder. But  _ it _ shouldn’t know that.

“I told you to stay out of my memories.” He berates, and the Copy’s eyes widen in understanding.

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised.” He stammers.

It crosses Steve’s mind that just as Steve can’t help seeing Bucky in him, the Copy can’t prevent itself from attuning to Steve’s memories and feelings. They’re wired to each other, and it terrifies Steve, because the only way to stop the Copy from mirroring the Bucky from Steve’s past is to forget  _ him  _ entirely. 

Steve steps back inside and moves to close the door, but the Copy stops him. 

“Please,” he says. “Can you leave it open? I won’t try to come in or anything, just please leave it open.”

Steve, against his better judgement, does.

There are days when Steve will be too drained to come out of bed. On those days, the Copy will bring him porridge and soup, a bottle of water, a book. He’ll open the curtains and air out the room, and Steve will growl in frustration. 

Slowly, the Copy will fill in every empty space, and Steve won’t fight back as much—because there is something deeply endearing about the way this creature cares for Steve. And it feels natural. Right. 

They’re in the living room one late afternoon, amber light seeping through the high windows. Steve looks at the Copy sitting on the marble floor with a book in hands, eyelashes turned golden in the half-light. The desire to capture that moment urges Steve to grab his drawing pad and start sketching. It’s the first time in months he’s drawn anything that isn’t a black page; he’s rusty, but the image is clear and he feels proud of this small achievement. 

This becomes a ritual, then. They’ll sit by the window at the end of each day and the Copy will read while Steve draws. Sometimes, the Copy will read aloud, and Steve will stop whatever he’s doing to revel in the sound of his voice. Steve will fall asleep and find a blanket draped over himself hours later. He’ll thank him, and the Copy will go around the rest of the day like he’s won the lottery. 

There isn’t much to be done in the apartment. Of course, Tony has equipped it with every possible virtual reality game available, but Steve prefers it old school. So they play chess and cards, and Steve always loses. 

“You’re cheating.” Steve will say to the Copy, and he’ll merely respond: “You gotta accept that you suck at this, pal.”

Steve rarely smiles, but one particular afternoon he finds himself doubling in half with laughter. The Copy had found a karaoke in Steve’s home system, and they had spent the last two hours squeaking out oldies and making each other cringe. Steve had then mentioned a song that Sam had recommended, and they had tried their hardest to hold that high note in Set Fire to the Rain, but the Copy’s voice had cracked horribly, and Steve was cackling madly before he even noticed it. 

He laughs until there are tears rolling down his face, and he can’t stop, even if it isn’t that funny. But he only has to look at the Copy’s face to crack up again, because he’s just as lost as Steve. “God, you sound like a dying dog,” he huffs out, and the Copy swats at him, sniping back “I’ve seen goats with more musical talent than you!” 

Steve throws a pillow at him, and the Copy tackles Steve. Thay play-fight until both are breathless and lying on the floor. But laughing dies on Steve’s lips when he realises that he’s resting atop the Copy. He moves to get up, embarrassed and clumsy, and the Copy holds him there, hand on his nape. 

“It’s ok.” He says, face so close and voice so quiet. He pulls Steve down to his chest again and Steve goes warily, but when his face touches the soft fabric, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The Copy caresses Steve’s hair, tangles it with his fingers, and Steve drifts off. It’s the best sleep he’s had in seventy years.  

After that, Steve becomes aware of the Copy’s touches. Not in a sense that he’s repelled by them, but that he craves them like air. They bump shoulders in the corridor, and Steve has goosebumps running down his arms. Their fingers touch when the Copy hands Steve a mug of coffee once, and Steve’s attention narrows down to it, so much that he drops the object. 

“Oh,” he interjects, and crouches down to collect the broken pieces. 

“It’s alright, I’ll do it, I can do it,” The Copy says, kneeling down as well. In his haste to amend things, Steve nicks his finger.  

“Shit,” he hisses.

“Language!” The Copy says mockingly. Steve sucks the finger into his mouth as the Copy takes the porcelain pieces to the counter and drops them into a brown bag. 

“Hey, don’t do that,” he chides when he sees what Steve’s doing. “Come on, I’ll wrap it up for you.”

“There’s no need, it’ll be healed in a minute.” Steve says, but the Copy doesn’t buy it.

“Let me see, Steve.” He asks, reaching for Steve’s hand. Steve lets him. 

The Copy takes his hand into both of his, eyeing the cut. The skin sews itself together under his gaze, and he runs a finger over the spot when it’s smooth again. Steve sucks in a breath, and the sound of it seems too loud in the quiet kitchen. 

“Does it hurt?” The Copy asks, barely above a whisper. He swallows, too, and wets his lips. Steve is enraptured by the sight, can’t stop staring at his mouth. 

“Not anymore,” he whispers back. 

The Copy doesn’t ask, but he looks intently at Steve as he takes a step forward, into Steve’s space. Steve’s heart is beating so fast that blood pounds in his ears and he feels lightheaded. He closes his eyes when the Copy captures his lips, choked out sob escaping his throat as the Copy runs a hand over his neck and pulls him down, deepening the kiss. 

Steve dives in head-first, swept off his feet by the desire to take, to be taken. It’s only when he presses up against the Copy’s thigh and realises that they’re both hard that he forces himself to pull back. The Copy groans in frustration. “Steve,” he calls, voice hoarse. Steve raises a hand, and the Copy shuts it. Steve goes back to his room, legs shaky and body buzzing. 

They don’t talk about the kiss, and it takes Steve a while to fall back into routine. He is so embarrassed by how turned-on, how needy he had become with just a kiss that he can’t look at the Copy. He’s afraid that his face will give out what he’s feeling, has been feeling for sometime now. But when the Copy offers to trim his hair, Steve can’t say no.

He pulls a chair into the bathroom and lets the Copy wet his hair and comb it. The sounds of their breathing, and the scissors nipping away fill the space. Steve closes his eyes and remembers doing this to Bucky, and him always being too fidgety for Steve to get it right. Steve smiles, heartache making him tear up. He doesn’t immediately open his eyes when the Copy finally announces it’s done. 

“Steve,” he hears, and looks up at the man-thing standing before him. The Copy reaches for his face and thumbs the wetness escaping Steve’s eye. Steve closes them again and basks in the feeling, until the Copy bends down and kisses his forehead, his nose, but Steve stops him at the lips. They stay there for a moment, sharing breath, and the Copy climbs into Steve’s lap.

Steve holds him by the hips. 

“You want this.” He whispers, and Steve doesn’t deny it. “I wanna give it to you.”

The Copy kisses his jaw, fluttering touches that end up with his tongue stroking Steve’s. Steve is so lost in it that he lets it happen, the rolling of his hips and the grinding together. He has never touched anyone like this, has never let anyone touch him like this. He had always hoped that it would be Bucky—and it can be, if he allows himself to believe it. 

The Copy pants against his mouth as he reaches into Steve’s trousers, nearly making him topple over. He huffs out a brief laugh, but is kissing Steve again in a second. Steve is besotted, taking every chance to register the Copy’s expressions, and at some point he realises that he wants to be the one causing them. So he reaches out and touches him, too. 

The way his eyebrows knit together when Steve swipes his thumb just right; the way he shudders when Steve mouths at his chest; the way his thighs tighten around Steve’s waist when he takes them both in hand and thrusts up his hips. Steve records them all, files them away in a corner of his mind. They finish together, and it’s perfect. Too perfect. 

They sleep together for the first time that night, the Copy cuddled up behind Steve. 

Steve wakes up at some point of early morning and looks at the Copy. He has rolled over and seems genuinely asleep. Perhaps he’s faking it for Steve’s comfort, perhaps he’s recharging. Steve is somewhat put off by the sight, so he gets up and goes to the living room. 

His drawing pad is resting on the arm of the couch, so Steve turns on a little table lamp and goes through every piece in it. Most of them are Bucky doing things as Steve remembers. Cooking and smiling and sleeping. Steve traces them with the pads of his fingers, reminiscing. But as he flips through the pages, the drawings start to change. Steve stares at them for a while, but can’t tell exactly what is wrong. Only later does he realise that these are drawings he’d made of the Copy. 

Steve picks up the charcoal and starts sketching. He isn’t sure what he means by this, but it feels important. When he’s done, he looks at the final piece and the feeling of wrongness remains, that something’s missing. He yanks out the page, wads it up and tosses it away. Carefully, he starts another drawing, and another, and another. He’s hyperventilating by the time he’s tossed the tenth drawing across the room, and only now he understands what is wrong about this.

He can’t remember Bucky’s face.

Every time he tries, he can only think of the Copy’s—with its slight alterations, moles and freckles lacking in some points. It had always been so easy to conjure up Bucky’s every unique feature in his mind, but now Steve’s filled with the same feeling that one gets trying to remember a dream. He gets scattered glimpses, ghosts of an image—but can’t piece them together. It’s like trying to grab fog.

Steve’s hands are shaking and wants to sob, but he can’t even cry. He goes back to his old drawings and stares at them, analyses every memory to their minutest details until his head is pounding and he can’t think of anything but the curve of Bucky’s lips.

He doesn’t think he could draw a straight line if someone asked it of him, but yet again he picks up the charcoal and presses it to the page; doesn’t stop until there’s nothing else to lay down. Steve drops the charcoal when it’s finished and holds up the pad. His heart calms down a little when the image on paper finally meets that on his mind. 

Steve can’t go back to bed. He’s too scared of what had just happened to look at the Copy right now. It dawns on him that all of this is but a reverie. Steve sleeps on the couch, but when he wakes up the next day, the crumpled papers are gone. The Copy smiles sadly at him, but doesn’t mention it. Steve knows that he must have spread out the drawings, seen the proof of how easily Steve would throw away every moment captured in them, and Steve wants to scream, because it feels like he’s being torn apart. 

One day, Steve is sitting by the countertop watching the Copy flip pancakes. He’s still wearing the same clothes from weeks ago.

“Don’t you ever shower?” Steve asks, and the Copy smirks at him, trying for friendliness—because Steve has been distant lately. 

“Would you like me to shower?”

Steve shrugs, and the Copy goes back to flipping pancakes. Steve knows they’ll taste exactly like Bucky’s, even the little clots of flour. He had stopped mid-bite one day to realise that food no longer tastes like ash, and is afraid to admit what that means. 

The Copy showers that day; Steve gives him new clothes, even if the ones he had been wearing don’t smell like anything. But when he walks into Steve’s room, only a towel around his hips, Steve notices a patch of dark hair under his navel that wasn’t there before; nor were those moles, or the freckles across his shoulders, the scar that Bucky had gained working at the docks. He also seems to have put on more weight and age, no longer the boy from Steve’s youth, but the man that Steve had walked through fire and flame to save from a Hydra base. It unsettles Steve more than he’d like to admit. 

The Copy dresses in front of him, and that is also Bucky. Steve clears his throat and grabs his trainers, exiting the room. He stops at the front door, breathing shallow, wondering if he’ll have the courage to step outside for the first time in months, when the Copy appears behind him. 

“You going out?”

Steve isn’t sure, because he’s this close to hyperventilating, but nods anyway. 

“Be careful, will ya?” The Copy says, and Steve blurts out the only possible answer to that question, like it’s muscle memory: 

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

“How? You’re taking all the stupid with you.” The Copy grins at him. 

His chest tightens, and there’s Steve’s answer. He goes down to the gym arena before he can think better of it and spends the next two hours punching sand bags. He has Jarvis lock the place down so he can be alone, but no one tries to come talk to him. 

He wonders just what the hell he’s doing. His emotions are one big mess, because he can’t help but finding comfort in the Copy’s presence, and wanting him, while at the same time feeling guilty about it. It feels like he’s replacing Bucky’s space in his heart with someone else, and that’s somehow worse than being unable to prevent his fall. 

But Steve is lonely, in spite of having dear friends that care about him. He’s out of his time, a broken relic—so who can blame him for trying to find comfort in the oddest places? He knows the Copy will do anything to see him healed, even taint Bucky’s image by portraying feelings that were never there. 

He punches the bag too hard and it goes flying across the room. Steve feels drained. 

He goes back up and showers, takes the longest he’s ever had. When he comes out, the Copy is waiting for him with a DVD in hand. 

“I know I shouldn’ta messed, but I wanna see this one.” He says sheepishly, and Steve nods. He leaves him to put on the DVD as Steve changes, trying to ignore the fact that they’re about to watch the first movie that he and Bucky had seen on a big screen, when they were sixteen. 

He must take longer than he thinks reminiscing, because the smell of popcorn floats into his room and the Copy shows up at the door to ask if Steve is still up to it. 

Steve sits there, but doesn’t pay attention to the movie. Instead, he notices that the Copy laughs and comments on the same things that Bucky once had. He has changed so much ever since the drawings incident—how he walks, and talks. Steve often catches the Copy looking at him like Bucky did right before he whispered  _ punk  _ and pulled Steve into a bear hug. Steve will die before he admits that more than once he’s thought of the Copy simply as  _ Bucky _ . 

When the movie ends, the Copy looks at him and his smile dies on his lips.

“You alright, Steve?” He asks, scooting closer. 

Steve rubs his face. “Yeah,” he hums. “Just tired.”

“You must be hungry. You didn’t even eat popcorn!” He tuts and gets up. “I’m gonna make us something, and you better eat this time, punk.”

He makes mac’n’cheese, sets plates for both of them, but only serves Steve’s. The Copy only watches him eat, and even if Steve has seen him do that countless times now, it’s like the second shoe suddenly drops. 

The Copy doesn’t need to eat, because it never feels hungry. It doesn’t need to shower, because it’s not human. None of this is real, and Steve is horrified that he has let this thing take Bucky’s place like this. Steve had only been feeding this creature with whatever his expectations were for a quiet life with Bucky, and  _ it _ had responded accordingly. It doesn’t love Steve. Never will. 

Steve leaves dinner on the table and runs to the bathroom, belching out what little he had eaten. The Copy’s steps are close behind.

“Steve, you alright?” He asks, face pale with concern. He kneels beside Steve and touches his shoulders, but Steve shoves him away. 

“Get out!” He screams, but the Copy doesn’t move, so he starts throwing shampoo bottles. “Please leave me alone! Leave me alone!” He repeats, and the Copy gives him one last look before standing up and walking out. Steve prays that he won’t be there when Steve leaves the bathroom, but then soft music starts playing and Steve walks out, wiping his face. 

The Copy is standing in the middle of the living room, the only source of illumination being the streetlights pouring in from the open window, and a small table lamp. He extends a had to Steve, and he looks a bit dishevelled, scruff covering his jaw, and shoulders perpetually tense. There’s a bruise on his left cheekbone and the side of his forehead. 

“Won’t my best guy allow me a dance?” He asks in that husky dulcet drawl. 

“Why are you doing this?” Steve asks, exhausted, defeated. Why is any of this happening to him is a frequent question nowadays.

But instead of answering, the Copy just approaches him, takes his hand and leads him to the centre of the room. His palms are soft, too soft—Bucky’s had been rough ever since they were kids and he was old enough to work—; but Steve had known that from the moment they first touched, and ignored it.

The Copy circles his waist and pulls Steve to his chest. Steve’s breathing is shallow, not unlike the times he had asthma attacks. The Copy guides him through it while rubbing soothing circles on Steve’s back. He encourages Steve to take deep breaths, says it’ll be O.K. But there’s no heartbeat coming from the Copy himself, no rising and falling of steady breaths. Steve feels like he’s hanging by a thread as they sway, slowly, together. He sighs shakily one last time, and hides his face in the Copy’s shoulder. 

After a moment, he confesses in a whisper. “I want to believe that you’re him.” 

“Then do.” The Copy replies, but Steve shakes his head. “Then I’ll make you forget.”

He leads Steve to the couch and Steve lets himself be pinned down. Allows this, whatever this is, to happen. He is so tired of fighting. When the Copy touches him, Steve is starved enough for comfort that he shivers and tangles his fingers in the Copy’s hair—he’s been dying to touch it forever now.

Steve kisses the spot beneath the Copy’s ear, the place that would make Bucky all wobbly, but the smell there is synthetic. He and Bucky had slept together to share heat countless times, and it breaks Steve’s heart knowing that he will never have his love’s scent linger on his skin again. So he holds his breath. 

He moans when the Copy sucks him off, fingers him—but there’s a part of his brain that insists on saying that Bucky would be gentler, would call him sweetheart and make Steve wetter than any dame. But these are all they are: thoughts, a fool’s hope. Bucky had never touched Steve like this. Would never have.

His moans turn into sobs as the Copy moves inside him—so raw and so good. Steve says  _ I’m sorry _ , but the Copy kisses him mute. He’s so warm. “Let go, baby doll,” he says, and Steve does. He comes, but it feels wrong. He wants so much to belong to him, this ghost, but finds himself pushing the Copy away and asking to be left alone. He only wants to be alone, to forget and be forgotten. 

He falls asleep on the couch, and wakes up at some point of the night with the Copy sitting by him on the floor. There’s something different about him. When he caresses Steve’s puffy face, the feel of his fingers is exactly as it should be; when he says “hello, sweetheart” and smiles crookedly, it feels like home. Steve’s heart gives a painful, hopeful leap.

“Buck?” He breathes out. It’s the first time in months he’s said the word aloud. Anything above a whisper could shatter this fragile moment. 

“Hi, baby doll.” He says, and Steve grips his hand, slides palm against palm, feels his knuckles with his lips.

“Are you really here?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, leaning down to press a kiss to Steve’s forehead. “But I ain’t got much time. Gotta leave soon.”

“Please, don’t” Steve begs, keeps saying please until Bucky shushes him with a kiss. 

“This is the end of the line for me, love.” He says, and Steve shakes his head. “But you gotta keep going. The world still has so much to offer you, baby doll. And you deserve its every blessing.”

Steve rises a bit on the couch, shaking his head vehemently. “No. No without you. I can’t- Can’t live in a world you’re not part of.”

Bucky smiles at him, traces a crease on the corner of his eye. He looks so sad. “But you have.”

“There’s so much I should have said. I should have held onto you.” Steve hides his face into Bucky’s hand, nosing the inside of his wrist, breathing in his scent. 

“You’re so strong, Stevie… I shoulda told you that every day. I’ll confess, I thought you were gonna live shortest between the two of us, you were always so stubborn.” He chuckles, and Steve smiles too. “But here you are. My Stevie.”

“It’s been so hard without you, Buck. I don’t think I can keep going like this.” Steve admits, and Bucky wipes a stray tear off Steve’s cheek.

“I know... But you must live. You must live, love, and find happiness. And I will live on, through you.”

Steve tightens his hold on Bucky’s hand.

“Please, stay.” He pleads, and Bucky moves from the floor to the edge of the couch.

“Only ‘til you fall asleep, alright?”

Steve tells himself that he won’t sleep. He looks at Bucky as he strokes Steve’s hair, and Steve is so tired, too tired to fight back as exhaustion overtakes him. “I’ll never forget you. Never have.” He promises, and closes his eyes.

When he opens them again the next day, the Copy is nowhere to be seen. 

Steve goes about his routine. The hollow in his chest is still there as the months morph into a year, but he ventures outside more. His friends hug him tight, say they missed him terribly, and Steve finds comfort in being surrounded by them. 

One night he and Sam are drinking in silence on the rooftop. It’s a warm evening and the sky is beautifully dotted with stars. He desperately wishes that Bucky were here to see it, and part of him tells Steve that Bucky does, because Steve is here right now, alive and breathing—experiencing this beautifully sad world as it should have been: like a regular person. He had left the shield in Tony’s lab one day, and hadn’t picked it up since. He feels lighter than he has in years.

“Sam,” he suddenly says, “I want to live.”

Sam pats him on the shoulder. “I want you to live, too, buddy.” He says, and chugs his beer.

So Steve lives. When the ache in his chest feels like it’s going to tear him apart, he revisits those places where he catches glimpses of another lifetime. It feels as if he’s been born into this world one too many times; and in every one of them it’s like there’s less and less of Steve left. This time had taken away such a huge part of him, again. 

But he will live—and his love will live, too.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. It's been 5 years or so since I last posted anything online, so I might be a bit rusty;  
> 2\. English isn't my first language, so if you see any typos or sentences that could use some improving, do let me know!;  
> 3\. I'm still pretty new to tagging, so if you see anything that could be tagged or/TW'd, again, please let me know!;  
> 4\. I'm on twitter as dantherus and I'm always free to talk! Let's chat :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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